


What the Spider Saw

by Mr_Selfish



Series: Soul Economy (Shorts) [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Modern Fantasy, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 22:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10817832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Selfish/pseuds/Mr_Selfish
Summary: "I'm not the biggest fish in the pond. I'm just trying to survive." - Simon CastelloSimon is content to live his life as a soulless husk but the denizens of San Antonio just won't leave him alone. Luckily he has a couple of demonic tricks up his sleeve that manage to hold back the tides of darkness.The first short story of many that take place in the "Soul Economy" series.





	What the Spider Saw

“What’s your story?”

I swirled the glass of whiskey round and round as the question crept up on me from the grizzly patron to my right. I turned to him to make brief eye contact, a sign that I was paying attention to him and thinking of a response. In truth I could have left the question floating in the air and I would go about my night without a single care in the world. I’d already made the mistake of staring at his rugged face so I thought I’d play the chameleon and blend in.

“Army. Afghanistan,” I sighed and stared into my drink.

I saw a head of hair and a beard that were left unchallenged for weeks, a face that was painted with scars - each with their own story, and a pair of brown eyes that seemed invisible in the fermented grain mash. I raised the glass to my lips and noticed the stranger glanced at my simple cane. I could see his eyes working together to assemble the pieces. If the man were a common Joe he would have continued to ask me a variety of questions. Questions like: how long were you in? Or the classic: have you ever been shot? This stranger was a saint, however.

“Well, thanks for your service,” he said before he took a swig of his drink and conversed with the bartender.

If I had a soul I would have felt happy, but I literally couldn’t. I preferred it when people kept conversations with me short because I didn’t want them to know that something was off. For example’s sake; have you ever tried talking to a wall? I’m the wall. I’ve gotten very good at being a wall that says and does things like a normal person, but none of it is real. This kind of camouflage was easy to acquire and apply. I would always just react how a fictional character would in a book or a movie. 

I tilted my wrist back to reveal a rosewood watch, and old habit I picked up during the good old days of patrolling streets with a rifle in my hands. 7:59, it was time to go. I reached for the cane and made it look like a struggle to get to my feat. Although I was disabled in the past, selling your soul to a demon has its advantages. Magic legs, for instance. While the army was giving me a paycheck, I surmised what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. As long as I had the cane out in public, I had the money to show for it as well.

Looking around it became apparent that I really needed to find a hobby. The bar was vacant save for the two individuals sitting next to me and the bartender. It struck me that perhaps it wasn’t ideal for people to go out for a drink on a Tuesday. I reached the front door and waved to the empty establishment, purely out of habit. After all, it’s the gesture that counts.

That was when the lights went off. Typically I would shrug something like this off as a coincidence, but there were a couple of mysterious factors that argued the opposite. I considered the time of the event, which seemed to match up at exactly 8:00. I lived in the area and hadn’t received word of scheduled maintenance, nor was the weather inclement enough for it to knock the power out. I decided that no matter what the cause was I wouldn’t bother anybody if I simply stood still.

The sounds followed. First movement, then struggle. A feminine scream, a couple of thuds, and last but not least: broken glass. Not one shatter, but two. I was certain that the thuds were the sound of someone collapsing. The only two people who were standing in the room were the bartender and me. 1 plus 1 equals 2, someone had taken the bartender out. I didn’t really have time to ask questions like who or why; I simply slid my hand into my pocket and fondled my knife. If my theory was correct then the attacker still had a couple of seconds left before the backup generators kicked in and I needed to be ready if he came for me. Nothing.

The lights flickered on and all of the pieces were in place. The victim’s corpse was bent over the bar in a sloppy fashion. Blood trickled from down from his jugular, the stranger I had spoken to just two minutes ago was sprayed down, and another man was comforting the shocked, younger woman. Red flags went off immediately. To the best of my knowledge the bar only had four people in it. It’s possible that I wasn’t paying attention, that this man had simply gone to the restroom or that he’d walked in from another entrance. My mind reached for every possibility as I continued to observe the scene.

“Call 911,” I shouted.

The woman clawed her phone out of her purse and started to sob into it after two rings. The man beside her took the mobile from her and reported that there had been a murder. I quickly spotted the murder weapon and approached it. A pile of glass, completely shattered and covered in the victim’s blood. I couldn’t help but raise my eyebrows in surprise, the weapon was ingenious. Who needs gloves when you could make fingerprint evidence completely untraceable by destroying the tool on the scene? Add a little darkness so that the witnesses in the scenario are useless and we have ourselves a free kill. All this evidence pointed to one obvious fact. This was done by a professional.

I only had about 6 to 7 minutes to speak to everyone present before the police arrived and separated us. I couldn’t feel any remorse or pity for the man that just lost his life or for the family that would never see him again, I was incapable. But I was able to put things into a simpler perspective. First the bartender, then me. Ever since I lost my soul I’d envisioned everything in a much more primal manner. Mental fulfilment was no longer necessary for me, only physical satiation. There was a danger nearby and it had presented itself to me so my next course of action would be to eliminate the threat.

I approached the man covered in blood. I asked, “Are you hurt at all?”

Moments ago things like mannerisms, appearance, and verbal orientation weren’t important. But the situation had shifted. All of these dots had to be observed and connected. The man appeared to be in his late twenties, Asian descent, but with European features such as his facial hair and cheek structure. Brown eyes meant that his father was probably caucasian while his mother was oriental or vise versa. He sat up straight, wasn’t shaking, and was sitting completely still as if he was either reliving a bad memory or going through the present scenario in his head. Either way all signs pointed towards a military background.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Fine. Just fine,” he continued by taking a deep breath and nodding. He asked, “What in the world is going on?”

I kept my voice down, another garbled conversation was happening on the other side of the room. “What does it look like to you?”

The man looked me in the eyes and his pupils didn’t move. “Two theories: complete accident in the darkness or this man was killed,” he said while holding both of his index fingers up.

Eyes tend to speak pretty clearly in an intense situation like this, even for me. His stated that he was completely serious in his reasoning. The fact that he didn’t directly assume that this was a murder, the vocabulary and diction that he chose, and his body language all provided further occupational analysis.

“I never asked,” I sidetracked us. “Were you military as well?”

A brief smile flashed onto his face but faded just as fast. “Air Force, investigations. Still active.”

I mentally berated myself. I’d forgotten to take note of his complete lack of hair. Other than that it seemed that his job held both a prideful and regretful place in his heart. For him it was complicated. For me it was all very simple. This wasn’t our killer.

Don’t mistake this for a sense of brotherhood. It’s common for people without souls to not function in that manner. The blood spatter pattern and the position of the body all indicated that he was in fact the killer, but the mysterious nature of the event seemed to just scream “no” at me in my head. As I approached the other two individuals in the room I could feel Mr. Air Force staring at me, analyzing me as I had done to him.

“Hey,” I said calmly as I feigned concern by wrapping my hand around the woman’s wrist, “Are you two alright?”

I looked into both of their eyes, first her’s and then his. She didn’t flinch or bother to remove my hand. She was almost assuredly of hispanic background, wore conservative clothing and jewelry, and was shaking violently. Her eyes were teary and her pupils couldn't decide if they wanted to be large black holes or small pebbles.

“I- I can’t believe…” she sputtered out before breaking down once again.

I removed my hand and rested it on her on the shoulder. “I’m so scared,” she continued.

As could be expected the other man caressed the woman’s back in a defensive way. His apparel made it obvious that he was either another bartender or a waiter. He was Caucasian, had blue eyes, slick blonde hair, and despite the situation he looked like he was feeling splendid. No body tremors, no tears, and a normal breathing pattern. The only discernible difference to this uncanny normality was his grim frown.

“It’s ok Victoria. Everything’s going to be alright,” he stated before pointing at the patron on the other side of the bar. “I think that man killed Bob,” he whispered.

Behind my stone cold facade I was overcome with a refreshing sense of victory. My original intuition was lining up, it was very likely that this man was our killer. He not only jumped right into a suspicion that the bartender was murdered, but he showed no visible sign that pointed to being innocent. Plus I’d imagined that if he worked with Bob then he would probably inherit the bar if Bob were to kick the bucket.

“I agree,” I lied and crept away from the bar.

As part of a demonic contract, the “true potential” of us humans is unlocked. The hellspawn call it this because apparently we all have supernatural prowess stuffed inside of us somewhere, but because of certain conditions we can’t access it. Ever heard of a mother lifting up a car to save her child? Do the lights around you flicker when you’re stressed? That’s our “true potential” escaping for a brief moment.

I considered my ability to be both a gift and a curse, just like every stereotypical comic book hero ever. I could sense and speak to every living being capable of thought. It could be very fascinating, but could also waste a lot of time. I’ve argued so many times with my cat Dena on why her name isn’t demeaning or bad in any way. Additionally I have to deal with my dog Duke breaking down and begging any time I eat a meal in our apartment. If you think your dog is irritating, imagine having to literally hear them beg for food.

“I want to make a deal,” I whispered.

Sure enough the spider swung down from her web and was already speaking. “You humans are so odd. Killing for reasons other than to feast.”

I didn’t feel like debating with a spider, “What did you see?”

The spider cackled, “What information do you have to offer me, friend?”

I sighed. It was always like this, and I didn’t know why. Spiders were always such a good source of information, they were like an illicit internet. The only downside was that they demanded an exchange. Like I said, I didn’t know why they wanted the information. From what I could tell it was because they simply enjoyed knowing. Due to the nature of how interconnected their “web” was, so to speak, it was also very difficult to give them information they didn’t already have or care for.

“No information. I can offer food,” I mused.

Silence. I took that as a ‘no’.

I verbally pondered, “Word on the street is there’s a new demon in town.”

“What?!” the spider exclaimed. “Who? Why?” it added.

It was my turn to shut up and return the cold shoulder.

The spider growled, “I see how it is. I was watching you, and you forgot two important observations-”

“No way,” I exclaimed, faking my ego.

“Indeed,” it went on. “The woman has a gang tattoo on the back of her neck, and judging by your movements you assume that only one of the individuals here is guilty.”

My heart actually skipped a beat for a second. Everything started to click together.

I recalled how the woman didn’t flinch earlier when I made physical contact. Her act was good, but it wasn’t that good. If she truly had some sort of gang affiliation then this scenario made complete sense. The co-owner goes to the illicit organization because he wants his own bar, makes a deal to split its profits, and then assassinates the original owner. Honestly, I was pretty sure that I would get out of this unscathed.

But for Mr. Air Force it was a completely different story. All of the evidence pointed to him and there were two false witnesses that would both say that he did it. There would be no way to prove that this was done by the people on the left side of the bar. I had to give the other patron a handicap, a reason why it couldn’t possibly be him who killed the bartender. 

The two hugged and closed their eyes in a quiet sort of mourning. A saw a bottle of tequila on the shelf and quickly hobbled towards it. I grabbed the bottle, then I grabbed the airman. I fumbled the bottle behind the man as I lead him to the restroom. Once inside I shoved the bottle into his chest.

“Consume this,” I commanded.

His eyes appeared as if the pieces in front of him were all coming together. He grabbed the tonic and made the full bottle disappear in seconds.

\---

A couple of days later I received the official police report from an acquaintance on the inside. The incident was classified as an accident. The airman was completely overcome by inebriation seconds after arriving at the station, they kept him in the precinct for the night before releasing him the next day. My prediction about how I would be assessed as a handicap was 100% accurate. There wasn’t enough evidence to incriminate Victoria nor to place the guilt on the co-owner. Since Mr. Air Force basically got away without rebuke, it was very probable that the criminal organization waved their hand and had the case completely disregarded, labelled as a waste of time.

I couldn’t feel, so I wasn’t worried. I did however battle with a strange sense that this was a candid introduction to a monumental tale.


End file.
